I recently sat in the audience at CLaSIC 2024 at the National University of Singapore, listening to Dr. Sarah Mercer’s keynote on the importance of prioritizing language teacher well-being to ignite learning engagement. Her words resonated deeply – if we want students to engage, we must first ensure that language teachers feel supported, valued, and emotionally well. But as I read the chapters in this volume, another question kept surfacing: What about those who teach the teachers? At the heart of this volume is the recognition that language teacher educators (LTEs) play a crucial role in shaping future language teachers, yet their emotional experiences have remained largely invisible in research and practice (Nazari et al., 2023). This volume challenges that invisibility, offering a much-needed space to examine the emotions LTEs navigate in their daily work. Across diverse global contexts, LTEs must not only manage their own emotions but also guide the emotional experiences of the teachers they mentor. At the same time, sociopolitical structures, educational policies, systemic constraints, and neoliberal pressures shape their professional realities, demanding constant emotional regulation, adaptation, and identity negotiation.

Here is a very different picture of the Shrikhande graph from that we have seen before (Fig. 7.1).

The graph appears to have 25 vertices. But the purpose of the small single and double arrows is to tell us that the five vertices along the bottom of the parallelogram are to be identified with the five vertices along the top, while the five on the left are identified with the five on the right, keeping the same order in each case. (So for example the four vertices of the parallelogram become a single vertex after this identification.)

Before proceeding, we stop to identify the graph with the Shrikhande graph, using the description given in Section 2.6.

At the crossroads of international law and global military history, this chapter revises the traditional story of violent encounters between Japanese guards and American prisoners of war (POWs) during the Second World War. It resituates those relationships within the shifting contours of international humanitarian law, highlights their position within a broader transnational dynamic of captivity that evolved between the two nations, and recontextualizes them within the Japanese Empire’s management of prisoners throughout the wider Asia-Pacific region before and during the conflict. It shows that there was nothing inherent to “Japanese” character or culture that led to the inhumane treatment of POWs. Although Japan increasingly disregarded international legal protections for POWs throughout the 1930s, it was ultimately institutional inadequacy and deteriorating material conditions in the besieged Japanese Empire that explained prisoners’ mistreatment.

The outbreak of the 1641 Rebellion is the focus here. The chapter traces events leading up to 22–23 October but is especially concerned with how immediate understandings and assumptions about the rebellion were crucial in shaping it as a religious conflict. In particular, the testimony of Owen O’Connolly as the plot discloser, and the reaction of the Dublin government, especially its proclamation blaming ‘evil-affected Irish Papists’ for the rising, is examined as being fundamental for casting events in a religious light and for sowing early fears of sectarian massacre and expulsion. Those early days, weeks and months would be foundational for the course of the rebellion and subsequent conflict.

In November 1945, the United States Strategic Bombing Survey set out across Hiroshima to find eyewitnesses who could speak to their experience of the atomic bomb. This surreal scene of dropping a weapon of mass destruction and then going about with clipboards asking residents how they felt about it encapsulated the many contradictions and ironies inherent of the American way of war. Yet the encounter in Hiroshima was also the result of a convergence of several historical trajectories and developments that were shared across all Second World War belligerents. Central to this history was the notion of “morale” and the transnational idea that the goal of bombing civilians was to break their “will” to fight. During the bombing campaign, “the target,” as one air commander put it, “had become the Japanese mind.” Furthermore, morale surveys, this chapter argues, set the stage for a later encounter by the psychological professions with the atomic bomb. This encounter further connected to studies done on Japanese-American internees, American occupation reforms, and the rise of psychological science as a pillar of Cold War struggles over hearts and minds, making it a pivotal moment in early Cold War history.

This chapter examines Simón Bolívar’s political legacy through the lens of Romantic aesthetics, arguing that the myths surrounding “the Liberator” ultimately obscure the true nature of revolutionary change. By situating Bolívar within the cultural currents of his time, it traces how his life and actions were framed in a messianic light, portraying him as a redeemer. This process of mythmaking, it contends, conceals the popular agency that was the essential force driving struggles for freedom. Drawing on a critical tradition that challenges the cult of Bolívar, the chapter concludes that ritual devotion to his messianic figure generates a powerful yet hollow symbol, one that embodies the central contradictions of modern politics and the unfinished business of the Romantic-era revolutions in the Americas.

The Army upheld religious observance and conformity. This was as true of the Hindu milieu of the Brigade of Gurkhas as it was of the Christian character of the wider Army. The Army’s ‘Christendom’ culture endured much longer than in civilian society: soldiers were expected to profess a religious affiliation, and mandatory worship did not disappear with the notional abolition of Sunday church parade in 1946. Only from the turn of the twenty-first century, and under the aegis of a New Labour government, did this situation begin to change. While the goal of making the Army more representative of society led to an increasing accent on recruiting from Britain’s ethnic and religious minorities, under the banner of equality, diversity and inclusion, Humanists began to challenge the Army’s Christian ascendancy. However, and although the proportion of soldiers professing ‘no religion’ (in fact, a remarkably varied category) grew in the early years of the twenty-first century, most notably after the end of major combat operations in Afghanistan, the appetite for fundamental religious change remained very limited, with Humanist aspirations being assimilated by the Army’s established culture of religious pluralism.

The conclusion offers the opportunity to reconsider the book’s main themes and to rehearse its central argument for the importance of religion to seventeenth-century Ireland, especially in understanding patterns of tension and conflict that were fully manifested in the 1641 Irish Rebellion. It also offers reflection on several potential avenues of future research, including the role of religion in early modern imperialism, especially the nature and justifications for violence, and about the place of atrocity and atrocity literature in building histories of the nascent British Empire, in which Ireland played a crucial, but as yet not fully understood, role.

This chapter focuses on Thomas Percy’s multiple roles as antiquarian, archivist, translator, and literary historian in order to analyze the relationship between romantic periodization and world literature in translation. By placing Percy’s famous Reliques in the wider context of his published and unpublished “translations” from the Arabic, Chinese, Hebrew, Icelandic, Portuguese, and Spanish languages, this chapter argues that Percy’s protoromantic poetics is critically informed by his discovery of ancient world poetry. Percy’s romantic theory of primitive poetry as the most universal and therefore most translatable literature arguably grew out of his translation work; correlatively, his ambition to collect and popularize world literature conditioned and made possible his national poetics. Percy thus serves as a particularly rich case study of the complexities involved in using periodization in global contexts, and in defining national literary traditions in relation to a larger, imaginary archive of world literature.

Museums not only preserve memory but manufacture it. Today, there is a global process of constructing collective memories of twentieth-century wars and genocides. It can be considered global because of the geographic and temporal reach of the two world wars and their subsequent memorialization, because of a shared set of challenges in representing what cannot be shown in war violence, because the responses to those challenges have entailed the creation of networks of international experts (architects, academics, curators, etc.), who often use common tropes and stereotypes to produce museums and their exhibitions, and because of a worldwide circulation of visitors who, sometimes denounced as engaging in a type of “dark tourism,” discover intimate connections between their own lives, past and present, and the sufferings of others.

This conclusion looks at cultural debate in the 1830s to consider the way in which the earlier decades of the nineteenth century were already being historicised by writers and intellectuals aware that they were entering a new literary age.